


The Grief

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [11]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Forced Prostitution, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeking respite from her grief, Rukia asks Hisana for a story. Rukia makes a startling confession. Byakuya and Hisana discuss whether it is appropriate for Rukia to attend the funeral. Rukia gives her condolences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grief

Propping her sister's head on her lap, Hisana gently brushes the stray hairs from Rukia's face. The tresses are stiff from a potent mixture of sweat and tears.

When Hisana stops, thinking her sister must find the caresses agitating, Rukia lifts her head.

_No, don't._

Tears swim in her dark blue eyes, but she fights them back. Expertly, she stuffs her sadness, raw and fresh, down for a moment longer.

_Anything to stop the pain._

She is desperate, broken, and pleading with herself.

"Tell me a story," Rukia murmurs, her voice weak and cracking.

_Anything will do._

_Anything to keep the silence away._

The painful, crushing silence pulls at the shadows lingering in the corridors of her mind, threatening to suffocate her. A heady mixture of sorrow, loathing, silence, and darkness rage in her veins, burn in her heart, and dance in her brain. That heady mixture will kill her. It will snuff out the flame that she labors to keep ignited deep in her heart.

Her sister stirs at the question.

Rukia can feel the muscles in her sister's thighs tighten and spasm. For a brutal moment, Rukia fears that Hisana will abandon her in that dark  _silent_  room.

"I shall fetch a book from the library," her sister's voice is uncharacteristically low, a mere ghost of its usual canorous brightness.

"No," Rukia manages to force the word out through her swollen throat. She cannot bear the thought of being  _alone_. A stabbing sensation shoots through her stomach. "One from memory."

Hisana is taken aback, and, swiftly, the silence floods back into Rukia's mind, filling it will cruel thoughts and even crueler memories. Again, agony pounds away in her head and across her body. Every muscle, fiber, and ligament cries out as if torture is upon them.

Sensing that her sister searches for something, anything, to say, Rukia settles her head down and says, "Tell me how you and brother met."

_Anything to kill the silence._

_Anything to distract her thoughts_.

_Even for a moment._

Her sister shifts again, and, again, Rukia fears the emptiness associated with deprivation and the harrowing feeling of being alone. But, the warmth of Hisana's slender fingers return. Her sister's touch, feather-light, travels across her scalp, and Hisana is careful to loosen the knots in her hair.

"Of course," Hisana whispers into the deep shade of the room. Her sister pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before she begins: "Lord Byakuya and I met on a blistering summer evening. The heat, it was so intense, so frustratingly hot—ice water would've boiled in  _minutes_."

Rukia glimpses her sister through weak eyes.

Hisana speaks with a thoughtful look painted across her face, and she uses her hands to usher in the memories.

"His family sponsored my debut into the Floating World in what was a long tradition of Kuchiki scions selecting an apprentice from my line of oiran. I was so nervous. Terribly nervous. Despite the heat, it took every fiber to keep from trembling as I played the koto for Lord Byakuya." Hisana's gaze fell to the floor, where it lingered thoughtfully.

"Two hours passed, and he did not make a sound nor did I. There was no need. I could read the words trapped in the depths of his gray gaze. He was broken—scattered into a thousand bladed pieces. Silence was his chains. Denial, his lock. Grief proved to be an effective anchor; its weight had crushed him, and, fragmented, he sat before me, telling me his tale in the best way he knew how—with his eyes.

"It took me two hours to read his look, to see past the mirror that his gaze held up to me, for I, too, sat before him in a shambles. I knew the lethargy in his stare as if it was my own. The distant apathy that he wore to perfection was my closest companion. We were kindred souls despite our relative backgrounds. No amount of pretty silk, money, or influence could hide the damage—not from those who feel it as acutely as we did.

"I was certain that I would never see him again after that evening, but, shortly after, he scheduled another appointment. The second time we met, I danced for him, and, as I danced, I prayed that he could read my body as I had read his gaze. He studied me well, and, after my dance, he left.

"During our third session, I danced for him again. I was snow, parting two lovers. At the end, I fell to the ground. And he said, 'Snow,' interpreting my story with a cool ease. And, I said, 'It falls.'

"He then did something extraordinary. He handed me a gift—a piece of his calligraphy. I took it from him with baited breath, and, looking down, I was amazed at his talent. The lines were so beautiful, so carelessly elegant. And, I read the word aloud: 'Heart.'"

Hisana holds her hands out as if holding the sheet of paper, and, reading the lines of her palms as if they are his fine brushstrokes, her voice breaks. "He glanced up at me, and, with a look so earnest, he said, 'It beats.'"

Rukia's large eyes fix her sister, and, for the first time in her life, she sees tears begin to well in Hisana's eyes.

No matter how cruel the family or other nobles are to her, her sister's sweet disposition never breaks. Not once. Yet, as Hisana recalls her brother-in-law's gentle admission of affection, tears fill her eyes.

"Well," Hisana continues, swallowing her moment of weakness, "that was it." She glances down at Rukia and dons a wry smile. "He conquered me with three words, and it was only my third appointment. I was probably the worst courtesan in the history of the profession," she says ironically.

Rukia's lips curve up into a muted smile.

Suddenly, it seems unfathomable to Rukia that her strong-willed sister could  _love_  the man who would become her husband and deign to serve another. Unable to reconcile the two thoughts, Rukia murmurs a soft, "You said you served Tadahiro, though?"

_How could you?_

_You loved him._

_It doesn't make sense._

Staring into the middle distance, Hisana's eyes harden. "Yes, I did. It was no easy task. And my heart betrayed me more than my share, dear sister. It was very trying."

She pauses and closes her eyes as she tries to recompose herself.

"One of my worst memories comes from the dual roles that my profession demanded of me. You see, Lord Byakuya had given me a prized kanzashi—one that his mother had lovingly worn many years ago. It was beautiful and old, and I cherished it deeply.

"One night, I was to attend a tea with Tadahiro and a few other noblemen. Not expecting Lord Byakuya to be in attendance, I wore the hairpin out of my devotion to him, thinking that if I could not be with him, then I could have a piece of his love with me for the night. He was there, and, I suppose our eyes locked for a moment too long. Our ardor, perhaps, it was a little too noticeable.

"Tadahiro recognized it instantly, and, like a hound to the scent of blood, he snatched the kanzashi from my hair, and he toyed with it between his fingers, asking me where I had found it. I remember making up some story—purchasing it in the marketplace or something of the sort. Whether Lord Byakuya and I meant to or not, our gazes met, revealing us both in a fell swoop. In retribution, Tadahiro snapped the antique in half, declaring it 'cheap,' and saying that he would purchase one twice as nice.

"I was devastated. Absolutely devastated. It was as if a black curtain had fallen over everything I had known and loved, depriving me of it."

Rukia shuts her eyes at this.

How horrible, indeed.

What a miserable existence—to have to deny one's own heart.

For a mere moment, Rukia feels sadness, not for herself, but for her sister. Her thoughts divert from her own inner maelstrom, and she finds relief. It does not last long. But, she silently thanks her sister for the opportunity to  _forget_.

"What did Brother do?"

"Nothing, at the time," Hisana says wistfully, "If he had approached Tadahiro then, he would have put my safety in jeopardy. Later, though, the two shared heated words. Words that quickly dissolved into fisticuffs. Lord Ginrei placed Lord Byakuya in confinement for a spell as punishment for his brazen actions."

"Tadahiro lost," Rukia observes, feeling a spark of satisfaction.

Her sister represses a smile. "Tadahiro lost much that season, I am afraid."

A mutual silence falls across the room. It is no longer as loathsome or as heavy as it once was. It is almost peaceful, and Rukia relishes the short lull of emotion hammering her.

That is, until, words, ugly and coarse, explode from her lips. "I never said I was sorry," Rukia blurts out. Her voice is thin, but the feeling is visceral and powerful. Immediately, she feels a weight settle against her chest. It is heavy, and she fears it will crush her.

Hisana makes a small noncommittal noise. It is soft, but it is enough for Rukia to know her sister has not understood her. She isn't sure if she can repeat her admission, but she tries all the same: "When I presented Vice Captain Shiba's body, I didn't tell his family that I was sorry."

Hisana's muscles flutter under Rukia's cheek. She can hear her sister's shock. She can hear it in the slight creaking sounds that echo in Hisana's joints and bones.

"Do you wish to give your condolences, Rukia?"

The question enters Rukia's ears as a statement. It is quiet, subtle even. But it is unmistakably a statement:  _You must give your condolences, Rukia. It is the proper thing to do_.

Reflexively, Rukia shakes her head, but she does not air her refusal. Not with words. She knows her sister's assessment is correct, but fear, cold and punishing, clamps her tongue down.

 _Cowardice_ , her inner voice notes mordantly.

Yes, she acknowledges her moment of weakness. She  _was_  a coward then. Now? Now, grief has seized her, and there is a gulf. It is not a visible rift, she knows, but the psychological distance keeps her at bay. She does not wish to return to the Shiba residence. She does not want to intrude on the family again. Not after last time, when her last intrusion ripped it apart.

"The funeral, Rukia," Hisana begins, "You should come with us."

Rukia lifts her head enough to glimpse her sister. Hisana is deathly serious. Again, it is a command, not a recommendation.

"Are you certain?" A deluge of questions and concerns imbues Rukia's brain. Will Brother protest? Is it wise? What will others think?

"Your presence is permissible, Rukia."

 _Permissible_  was a code for  _approved_. Either the Thirteenth or the Shiba family approved Rukia, which means….

Tears begin to stream down her cheeks.

Where will she find the resolution?

* * *

"Are you certain this is prudent?" Byakuya turns to his wife, and he focuses his attention on her. His look is one of quiet contemplation. He asks because he seeks counsel not because he already knows the answer and hopes she agrees.

"Yes, Lord Byakuya," Hisana replies. Her voice is both stern but gentle.

"It may be hard for her," Byakuya reasons.

Hisana nods. She knows her husband has a propensity to be over-protective of his family. He tries as hard as he can to spare the ones he loves from pain at every turn. Sometimes, she wonders if he is attempting to make up for the pain he has had to endure. Perhaps all the loss, all the grief, and all the protocols have injured him more than he lets on?

Hisana studies her husband with a keen eye. "It will be hard for her," she says. "But, it will be harder fifty years from now."

"It could break her," he observes, his voice low and his expression pensive.

"Then we will have to build her back up," comes his wife's confident response.

His eyes drop to the floor. "Very well."

Hisana moves to his side. "I will fetch her."

And fetch Rukia, she does.

The walk to the Shiba estate is taken in silence. Not even the birds dare to chirp. There is only an oppressive stillness, and that stillness sinks in from the skin before it rattles around in the bones.

Rukia keeps her head bowed low and her eyes trained on the ground. In abject horror, she watches as the terrain morphs from lush grass to yellow cobblestones to a dirt trail. Yes, she remembers the way to Kaien's home.

How she wishes she doesn't.

She enters the estate. She says her condolences. She breaks. Piece by piece, she feels her walls crumble as she kneels before Kaien's sister. The words just fall. They hit the floor and shatter.

It is all a blur. It comes to her in muted shades of sadness. It is as if her world has been shot in the same blacks and blues that paint her mindscape. It is extraordinary.  _It is extraordinary and crushing._

She feels like death. Her presence parts crowds. It draws whispers and gasps. She hears some of what is uttered but not the whole of it. For that, she is eternally grateful.

"I am sorry."

The words sound in her ears, but she is uncertain whether she spoke them. Perhaps it was her sister? Hisana's voice sounds very much like her own.

It was probably Hisana, she reasons.

She glances up to see Kūkaku glaring down at her. The woman looks like she is going to pounce, like she is going to pummel her. She could use a good pummeling, Rukia thinks. Maybe a fist to the face is just what she needs to rouse from her dormant dreariness. She certainly would not deny the woman her right to seek vengeance.

Kūkaku does not punch her. No. The woman stares down at Rukia. Her gaze reveals her pain, but it is steely. It nips at Rukia. It overwhelms her.

"I am sorry," Rukia says, or, at least this time, she is fairly certain she says.

Kūkaku's lips move. Sound should be coming out, but Rukia cannot hear it. She cannot hear a single word. The noise is just too loud, just too deafening.

"I am sorry," Rukia repeats. Her voice echoes in the halls of her mind until it is all she can hear.

Kūkaku punches her. Hard. The force of the punch lands Rukia flat on her back, but she is quick enough to sit up. Wide-eyed, she stares at the strange woman, the strange woman who looks so much like Kaien.

"Thank you," Rukia says, cupping her wounded cheek with the palm of her hand. Remnants from the ground—grit and leaves—press in a scratchy amalgamate against her face, but she leaves it. It requires too much effort to  _care_  about such trifling things as appearance.

Kūkaku lifts her head, eying Rukia. While the lines of her face are smooth, despair and grief still linger in her eyes. The emotion is deep and visceral, acutely held. But, there are no traces of anger or disgust on her visage.

Rukia sucks in a shaky breath as she recognizes Kūkaku's gaze. It is the same gaze that Rukia dons. In that moment, they are kindred spirits, suffering through a great loss.

There is no animosity. No hatred. No bad blood. If there were, Rukia would know.

Judging by how hard she punches, Kūkaku doesn't seem like the type to hold back.

Just like her brother.


End file.
